


Corelle in a Handbasket

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Domestic, First Aid, Gen, Injured Peter Parker, Peter Parker Lacks Self-Preservation Instincts, crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “But it was necessary, Mr. Stark. Because nothing else would have made any difference. Like I said, law of the universe."
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	Corelle in a Handbasket

**Author's Note:**

> Going anon for this one, because it's cracky and I question my grasp of the characters.

The thing about chip-resistant dishes, as Tony had discovered within months of Pepper stocking the penthouse kitchen with them, was that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, dropping one was no big deal. It would briefly bounce, then clatter harmlessly back to the tile, leaving nothing more serious in its wake than a few jangled nerves. 

But every once in a while, a spectacular shatter would ring out instead. Tiny shards would go flying in every direction, and before you could even blink, the kitchen would be covered with so much glass that it looked like someone had blitzed the entire china cabinet.

Today was _that_ kind of day.

Satisfied that he’d rounded up as many of the pieces on the floor as he could, Tony stowed the broom and dustpan and turned to examine the pizza sitting on the stove. It looked okay, but then again, he’d found shards on top of the refrigerator before—for them to land on something the height of the counter was by no means a stretch. And the now-disassembled plate had been an off-white, which would probably be the perfect color to blend in with the cheese... 

He shook his head and reached for the oven mitts. Not worth it. No way he was going to risk feeding the kid broken glass. They’d have to figure out something else for tonight. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

As if on cue, Peter emerged from behind the island. Tony took note of his bare feet and held up a hand.

“Go get your shoes, kid. I broke a plate.” 

Peter ignored him and stepped into the kitchen. “I heard you. It’s Corelle, right?” 

“Yeah?”

Peter nodded. “That’s what May and I have.” With that, he turned his back to the stove and began shuffling sideways around the perimeter of the kitchen, eyes focused on the ground. 

Tony gave him a searing side-eye. “What are you doing?”

Peter didn’t look up as he negotiated the handle of the refrigerator door. “Life lesson, Mr. Stark: when you break Corelle, it’s impossible to get all the pieces with a broom. It’s a law of the universe that you always find the last one in your...ah.” He lifted his foot, pulled out a shard, and smiled triumphantly. “Jackpot.” 

Tony gaped as Peter regained his footing and gracefully tossed the piece of glass into the trash can.

“Kid, _what the he_ —” 

“What?” 

Peter squinted at him, head slightly cocked. Then he shifted, and Tony espied a red smear on the tile. 

“You’re bleeding. Sit.” He pointed to one of the island’s stools and strode towards the sink. He could practically hear Peter roll his eyes. 

“It’s a _scratch_. It’ll be gone in, like, fifteen minutes.”

Tony turned on the tap. “And there goes your foot, if you get the wrong kind of infection. You don’t know where this floor has been.” 

“I’m not worried. Ms. Potts told me you steam clean it twice a week. She says it helps you relax.”

Unwilling to dignify that with a response, Tony simply huffed as he dried his hands off with a paper towel. Then he retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink and made his way towards the island, where he was pleasantly surprised to find that, despite the complaining, the kid had still sat down. This concession, however, did not prevent him from sighing dramatically as Tony began his ministrations. 

“You know, Ned was banking on getting the Biggest Mother Hen award this year. He’s gonna be disappointed if you grab it from under his nose.” Peter gave Tony a beseeching look. “Do you _really_ want to be responsible for making a teenage boy cry?”

“He’ll get over it. Ted has a good head on his shoulders. Which is more than I can say for you.” 

“Dang, Mr. Stark. That’s... _ouch_.”

Tony shook his head, totally unrepentant. “C’mon, kid. Do I really have to explain why intentionally stepping on broken glass is _stupid_? I always thought that one was pretty intuitive.”

Peter shrugged. “It hurts less when you’re expecting it. And anyway, better for me to do it on purpose than for you or Ms. Potts to do it by accident.” 

If his hands hadn't been full of gauze, Tony would have facepalmed. For now, a deep sigh had to suffice.

“You know what, Underoos? I’ll admit to the steam cleaning, but only to make a point. Don’t you think that, sometime during the course of one of my biweekly steam cleans—which, yes, happen to be exceptionally therapeutic—I might have noticed any stray pieces of glass and disposed of them properly? Or I could have brought one of the bots up to do a sweep. Point being, a shardless kitchen could have been achieved with zero carnage. This whole hemorrhaging bit was totally unnecessary. All it did was give you another opportunity to scratch your rabid self-sacrificial itch.”

“But it _was_ necessary, Mr. Stark. Because nothing else would have made any difference. Like I said, law of the universe. Somehow, you or the bot would still have missed a piece, and the first time you or Ms. Potts came in here barefoot—even if it was _years_ later—you would have stepped on it. Now you don’t have to worry.”

Tony finished bandaging and immediately pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it. But let’s make a deal. Next time I break a dish, I’ll use _my_ foot to find the last piece, and you’ll put your damn shoes on. Okay?” 

“No. Definitely _not okay_. Healing factor trumps butterfingers. That’s another law of the universe.”

“If that equivalency even _made sense_ , I’d want to see more data. Because I’m skeptical.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem.” Peter smiled just a little apologetically. “But sorry, Mr. Stark. No deal.”

* * *

“FRIDAY, order five thousand paper plates. I’m not letting that kid near real dishes again until he’s forty.”

_“If I may offer a word of advice, Boss?”_

“Always, baby girl.”

_“If your intention is to prevent Peter from sustaining another injury, paper is probably not the most prudent option.”_

“Why’s that?”

There was a moment of silence, and Tony imagined that, if FRIDAY had a throat, she would be clearing it.

_“Paper cut. Noun. A cut caused—”_

Tony gripped his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. “Right. Yeah. That’s a bullet we want to dodge. Good catch, FRI. What would you recommend, then?”

 _“Since you ask, Boss, I_ _have_ _been eyeing a lovely 64-piece set made out of a copolyester resin…”_

  
  



End file.
